Closest to Heaven That I'll Ever Be
by aphytick
Summary: Grantaire wakes up, but he is too late.


He had lulled himself in to a sickly sleep that tasted faintly of wine, and he had been quite content to stay that way for the duration of this fool's revolution, but a sharp crack had roused Grantaire from his stupour. He groaned in a feeble protest that was directed at no-one in particular and fought to keep his eyes closed and his breath even in the hope of returning to sleep, but it was futile. He wrapped his fingers around a wooden panel and hauled himself off the floor, one hand lightly dusting himself off as the other swirled a jade green bottle in an attempt to gather the last few drops of wine. Grantaire raised the bottle to his lips, but a thought hovering on the edge of his mind stilled his hand. He cast his still bleary eyes around the room and huffed in the stagnant air. He was certain that the other boys would have woken him had there been any developments, so it made him wonder why the shop had settled in to such silence. He moved away from the corner he had holed himself up in, and walked towards the stairs that led to the upper floor.

"Marius?" Grantaire called out, voice quiet and rough with lack of use. "Courfeyrac, don't tell me we've won already?"

His foot was heavy on the stair, the creaking of the stained wood abnormally loud. This was world's away from before, when they had planned and plotted following the news of General Lamarque's death. Then there seemed to be no end to the noise, a cacophony of driven men that sang songs of revolution and celebrated - no, not celebrated, for that would seem too trivial - that strove towards their ideals of a tomorrow full of freedom.

Everyone had slapped their brother on the back, and received a crushing embrace in return in anticipation of a battle they had not yet won. The air was warm, and the light was blinding, and all around were the bright smiling faces of the future. One face smiled the brightest, and one voice sang the loudest, and it was with an approving glance that he surveyed the room and the men around him.

Enjolras had an arm slung around Marius' shoulders, and he had rolled his eyes and sighed slightly as Marius had threatened to go off on another tangent about his love that he had just met. Grantaire had teased him lightly, swigging from the bottle before launching in to a rather rude rendition of a love poem. His voice raised a fraction, almost defiantly when Enjolras looked in his direction, before the leader's attention was pulled away by Combeferre. Grantaire drank again, longer this time around.

The truth was that Grantaire had no interest in this game. He cared little for democracy, and his involvement was minimal, instead assuring his brothers that he was in this for the copious amounts of alcohol that he was supplied with, and the lack of much else to do. But that wasn't the whole truth, now was it. If he were being honest he would say, although lacking in passion himself, he admired it in others, and no passion burned with more fury than Enjolras' did. He was the leader of Les Amis, and fit his role like he was born for it, and he very well could have been. Grantaire could not understand this, did not grasp why the cries of rebellion and "_for Patria_" tumbled from his lips with such vigour, but when he looked upon him, chest tight with pride and his very soul seeming to span the room, Grantaire knew that he didn't need to understand. It was enough to follow Enjolras. Grantaire realised that he would follow Enjolras wherever that may lead, admiration and perhaps something more moving him to things he had never been sure he was capable of. Grantaire realised that he would willingly do anything, not for the country and not for the cause, but for Enjolras. Grantaire would die for him.

He also knew that this was forever to be his burden alone to bear. Enjolras had become so full with his passion that there was little room for anything else. Grantaire watched him silently, hands usually working the glass of a bottle, and became aware that it was never his place to be directly by his side. Sometimes, just to be a part of his world was enough, but other times, the times when he was alone he could swear that he was burning from the inside, and the only way to douse the flames was too far beyond his reach. He wanted to cry out for relief but still, he stayed quiet. He joked, he drank, he sang, but he never said a word. He accepted that he would be ever looking up at Enjolras, and would never meet his gaze directly as equals.

Grantaire continued up the stairs of the wine shop, his own pulse an almost violent drumming in his head. He hummed to drown it out, but the song died in his throat at he reached the upmost floor. The soles of black boots greeted him, and Grantaire staggered forward to the window, the drumming picking up pace and volume with every step. An eternity seemed to trickle by before he reached the window, and with a thick swallow he learned forward slightly to gauge the identity of his fallen brother. A vision of red swam before him and a soft, haggard gasp passed his lips. The drumming stopped dead, a sick reflection of his own heartbeat matching the heartbeat of the cooling corpse that hung from the sill. With trembling hands, he curled the fingers of one hand around the lapel of that oh so red coat, the other hand unhooking a boot from the edge of the window, and he hauled. Grantaire stumbled twice, crying out each time as he felt the body slip from him for a fraction of a second before he regained his hold. But ah, he had already slipped from him, hadn't he?

Grantaire laid him down on the floor, folding up the flag he had found clutched in Enjolras' hand and placing it under his head. His skin was stark and pale against the almost mocking vibrancy. Graintaire collapsed on to his knees beside the body, his own frame heavy and leaden. His eyes were unfocused and hazy, and his mind was having a difficult time grasping what was right before him. He should have known this would have come to be, was almost certain that he did at a time, but times changed and he found himself believing in Enjolras' words. His interest was not in the words themselves, but what was behind them and he became as sure of their success that Enjolras had seemed to be, and it seemed impossible that they would fail, but now the weight of their failure pushed down on his and concentrated in the form of his leader.

Grantaire ripped the bottom of his own shirt and soaked a corner of the cloth in the wine remaining in the bottle. He wiped gently at the blood that had congealed on Enjolras' face and neck, something like "and you said alcohol never did any good" bubbling behind his lips. He continued this for a while, obsessing over removing every last spot just so he could see that proud and passionate face once more, but now he just looked young and peaceful. Hopeless. Grantaire smoothed the curls back from Enjolras' forehead, and let his hand rest on his cheek. He was beautiful, had also been so beautiful, but now that beauty was fragile and bitter and something akin to anger rose in Grantaire's chest and coloured his cheeks. He wept, grief overcoming him as he placed a trembling hand over his mouth from which broken sobs were escaping. If Enjolras had seem him like this, Grantaire was sure he would have been ashamed, telling him that now was the time to be brave and strong and to stand tall, but Grantaire was not like Enjolras and perhaps that is what made him so disreputable in his eyes.

His frantic breathing slowed, and his shaking subdued and Grantaire gazed once more upon that face. He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Enjolras' forehead, before drawing the flag that symbolised his desires and his downfall over him, a soft promise ghosting in the air.


End file.
